


There's Too Much Green to Feel Blue

by Flames_and_Jade



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Band, Art, Art appreciation, College AU, College Life, M/M, Snark, a bit of pining, college jobs, essay writing, maybe some smut, music student!patrick, or lack thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-02-28 02:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13261821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: Patrick considers the guy who can (apparently) stare at a piece of modern art for an hour...what a weirdo. Anybody who can look at smudges of paint that a five year old could do has to be pretty crazy, right? At least he wasn't hard on the eyes, he thinks...definitely the prettiest thing in the Modern Art Gallery he was supposed to be presiding over that afternoon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! So, this is just a little something silly that I was inspired by my recent trip to Connecticut for the Bleachers/FOB concert and resultant wandering around Yale's many museums and beautiful buildings. Shooting for it to be maybe two or three chapters, so...not my usual epic :) Hope you enjoy, and happy 2018!! Comments, kudos, and random screaming is so appreciated!!! <3

The first time he saw him was when he had been assigned to the modern art section of the museum. He had groaned just barely low enough that the head of security hadn’t heard...but Joe snickered next to him, well aware of his hatred for that particular section. But like a dutiful docent, he had trumped off to stand and watch stuffy art students and moonstruck lovers ponder splashes of color that he was pretty sure his five-year-old niece could have made. He had made an effort, when he first started working at the DePaul Art Museum, to learn about the pieces. Little anecdotes or facts about the artist’s life or perspective to offer to interested parties—mainly the old people who were alumni from years past and came because it got them their daily exercise to walk around.

 

But this morning, as the early light streamed in through the skylights and he took up his place nearby the fluffy, somewhat human-shaped statue of god-knows-what... _he_ walked into the gallery. He did the usual thing that everyone did--strolling around the circumference of the room, pausing here and there to read a placard or peer at something indecipherable. Patrick decided that _this_ was the worst type of person, someone who actually pretended to be _interested_ in the cacophony of paint or blockish swaths of color that made up the gallery’s pieces. Still, he decided...he wasn’t bad to look at—dark hair straightened and partially-obscuring dark eyes rimmed in smudged black eyeliner. He was downright _bony_ , the skinny jeans doing nothing to hide the lack of meat on his bones, but Patrick couldn’t help but admire his choice of shoes—Bapes in nauseatingly bright colors that he had actually considered purchasing himself. Still, as he sat and contemplated the piece by Beauford Delaney that was titled inspiringly “Untitled,” Patrick decided that anyone who could stare at pastel paint smudged in swirls for a solid hour _had_ to be an actual idiot.

 

An elderly couple came in and stared adoringly at the statue he had taken up residence next to, and he felt uncomfortable being in the general vicinity of their flourished hands as they threw about words like _inspired_ and _effortless clash of modernity_. So he drifted away to stand behind Shitty Art Pondering Dude, because _why not_ , he could stand anywhere, they had told him so. Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them on the hem of his cobalt blue Museum Polo before shoving them back on and squinting at the painting. Light tones of blue, yellow, white, pink and a dash of green was dabbed, smudged and swirled against twelve square feet of canvas and….nope. He didn’t see it. He knew from endless afternoons standing in the gallery making sure nobody tried to lick the Warhol that the placard said it _has a quality of heightened awareness, of focused openness, and expected connectivity_ and he had absolutely no idea what the fuck that was supposed to mean. Maybe he could artistically sneeze some paint on a canvas, rub the contents of some Top Ramen seasoning packets on it and say it represented the struggle of students in a postmodern era.

 

He was so caught up in the idea, internally laughing as he imagined his and Joe’s dorm room with a canvas propped up on his desk, both of them throwing balloons full of paint and dry fragments of ramen noodles at it, that he almost missed when Shitty Art Pondering Dude turned around and gave him a look so full of _feelings_ he suddenly felt the urge to hand him a tissue.

 

“It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?” His eyes are soulful and soft, the dark eyeliner only serving to make them look wider and a bit more desperate, and Patrick finds himself nodding.

 

“Yeah, I—“ But before he can utter a totally uninspired and mostly false sentiment about the painting, Shitty Art Pondering Dude waves him over even as he cuts him off with prattle. For some reason, Patrick’s feet betray him and carry him over to stand next to the bench, the painting looming large and swirly in front of him.

 

“I think it’s amazing, like how he captures so many things. Like you can _feel_ sunshine of that cafe, you can almost _see_ the book clubs and the light on the water, you can _hear_ the jazz—“

 

“Jazz?” He can’t help it, his ears perk up at any mention of music, no matter how small. “What do you mean?”

 

“Dude.” Shitty Art Pondering Dude gives him a look like he admitted to not knowing the earth was round. “Do you not know _anything_ about Delaney? He was a black gay dude who felt like he couldn’t fit in in New York City, so he moved to France, found jazz and realized it was totally cool to be black _and_ gay there. You can _see_ it in his art when he finally allowed himself to accept who he was, and it’s fuckin’ awesome.”

 

“Huh.” In the moment, he couldn’t think of anything else to say—it was a pretty cool story, one he could seriously relate to—but that was just so _hard_ to figure out how to communicate with words sometimes. “That’s...cool.”

 

“It’s fuckin’ radical, that’s what it is.” Shitty Art Pondering Dude’s phone went off—an annoying cacophony of tinny-sounding Metallica—and he silenced it with a flurry of hands and apologies. Squinting at the tiny screen, his thumbs flew over the keyboard before sliding it back into his pocket. “Well, duty calls. Enjoy the art, man.”

 

Patrick nodded politely and only watched him leave for strictly _security-related reasons_ , thank you very much. He had a good ass, he decided...well, what ass there was on that bony frame. Shaking his head, he gave a final glance at the painting...looking as hard as he could for the magic spark that had held the guy so in a thrall...and while he didn’t see Jazz music or a Parisian cafe...he sort of understood what the placard meant by _heightened awareness._

  


~//~

 

“Dude. Why the fuck do I have to write _twenty_ goddamn pages on different styles of composition, when I’m a fucking _music major_ and I could just _write a goddamn composition.”_ Patrick groused into his pillow as he tumbled face-first onto his bed, backpack crammed full of notes thumping to the stained carpet like a guillotine blade.

 

“Is it double-spaced?” Joe asked, and Patrick looked up to squint at him blearily from behind his crooked glasses.

 

“Yeah? Why?”

 

“Well—” opined Joe, who was currently highlighting sections of his _Business Models for Entrepreneurs_ textbook, “—then it’s _technically_ only ten pages! Just write ten pages single-spaced then change it and BAM! You’re done!”

 

“It’s still the same amount of fucking writing, dumbass.” Patrick groused as he rolled over and glared at the ceiling. “When did you decide to be goddamn pre-law and spout bullshit like that?”

 

“Oh fuck you.” Joe threw a sock that probably had mold growing on it at his head and Patrick cursed the universe for giving people aim that weren’t him. “The only one of those prissy motherfuckers I don’t hate is Andy, and that’s just ‘cause he wants to be a fuckin’ animal rights lawyer and free all the puppies they test lotions on and shit.”

 

Grunting, Patrick toed off his shoes and stretched, wondering if he had time for a nap before his shift at the museum. After consulting his watch, he sighed because _no_ , he didn’t...only fifteen minutes before he had to put on one of his three blue polos and tramp across campus. He stared at his backpack full of notes and decided that no more paper-writing would be done today. Instead, he picked up his battered guitar and started picking the melody he’d had in his head as he had gone through microfiche files and buried himself in musty books. He could feel himself calming as his fingers danced over the strings, sometimes barrelling ahead, sometimes playing the same bit over and over until it sounded _just right_ . His watch beeped that he had a shift starting in 30 minutes and he sighed-- _someday_ he’d get to just write music all day long and get _paid_. It was going to be fuckin’ rad.

 

With a huff, he pulled off his faded band tee and shrugged on a blue polo that looked semi-clean. Joe glanced up as he cursed from stubbing his toe while rooting around for his black shoes. “I like that new thing where they tell you on the schedule what section you’re going to be in. Means I can mentally start preparing myself two days in advance when I know I’m gonna be in the Renaissance section.”

 

“Too many cocks for comfort?” Patrick grinned at him as he shoved a foot in his shoe and started lacing it up.

 

Joe rolled his eyes as he shook his head. “You know, not _everyone_ is a homophobic asshole, asshole.” Patrick just shrugged as he stuck his other foot in, giving him a grin so he knew he knew that too. “I hate it ‘cause you get those freakin’ art student who think they know _everything_ , that like drone on forever about the light and the blah blah blah.” He pantomimed a talking student with his hand before running it through his curly mop. “The stuck up ones are the worst.”

 

Patrick hummed in agreement, mind casting back to the guy in the Modern Art Section the week before. While at the outset he _definitely_ would have classified him as a “stuck up one,” there had been something about his eyes when he had pulled Patrick over. Something about the way he had picked the words about the painting, like he had some sort of empathetic connection with it, like it had _mattered_ to him. And _no,_ the logical side of his brain chastised the tiny romantic corner of his brain, it wasn’t _just_ because the guy had been hot, and way out of Patrick’s league. It had nothing to do with the way his jeans had clung to his legs, the ink that had poked out from under the neckline of his hoodie, the coppery-brightness of his eyes, or the fact that Patrick hadn’t gotten laid in _months_. He was just another patron.

 

~//~

 

The next time he saw Shitty Art Pondering Dude, he was wearing what looked like _two_ hoodies—one with wide purple-and-black stripes and one that was faded red—and a beanie pulled down over his artfully-swept bangs. Patrick considered the snow in the forecast and wondered if that was the guy’s idea of dressing warm. Some people just didn’t know how to Adult (not that he was much better, but he had at least _brought_ the heavy coat his mother bought for him).

 

Shitty Art Pondering Dude had taken one of the little stools the museum had available and that _only_ pretentious art students ever used and parked himself in front of a gloomy Thomas Patch painting. It was done in moody oils, all moonlight and black coastline illuminated by the red glow of a distantly-exploding Vesuvius. It was one of Patrick’s favorites, if he was being honest, and it always made a little thrill go through him for some stupid reason whenever someone looked at it extra close.

 

He had a large sketch pad open on his lap with several pencils jammed in his mouth, scribbling furiously as he looked back and forth between the paper and the painting. After dropping a pencil several times, he shook his head and plunked down on the wood floor, back against the flimsy chair. He seemed to find a better groove, judging by the set of his shoulders, and resumed drawing but at a less frenetic pace. Patrick’s assigned wing of _European Art from 1756-1879_ was largely deserted, except for a cluster of art students who were looking at Degas’ _Dancer Ready to Dance with the Right Foot Forward_ and taking notes while arguing quietly, and a hunch-backed Asian kid who seemed to be trying to recreate a Monet on his iPad.

 

He walked with practiced ease in a slow circuit, that quintessential “ _don’t mind me I’m just making sure you aren’t about to pull a knife and slash the paintings to ribbons but I don’t really know what I’d do if you did_ ” stroll that made him both invisible and intrusive. He tugged the hem of the black cabled sweater vest that he’d grabbed on the way out that morning—it had been a bit chilly in the museum lately—and tried not to worry about finals. He played back his Music Composition piece in his head as he walked, trying to figure out the tiny _spark_ it was missing. Halfway through, he realized his path had taken him right up to where Shitty Art Pondering Dude was sitting on the floor. Stealing a glance at the pad, he saw the beginnings of a lovely charcoal sketch of the painting—all darkness and the stark white of the paper, but the haunting nature of the distant threat was still apparent in smudged tones of grey. It was beautiful.

 

Then Shitty Art Pondering Dude looked up at him with an expression that reminded him of a dog caught with a roll of toilet paper, giving him a plaintive smile. “Uhh...am I in the way?”

 

Two options flashed through Patrick’s head: Option 1 was to tell him yes, because _technically_ you weren’t supposed to sit on the floor—something about a tripping hazard. Option 2 was to say no, and say something charming that smacked of _I’m actually really witty and subtle, so you should go on a super-cheap date with me_.

 

“Yeah, actually you are.” He felt the words catch in his throat as the guy’s face fell, and he coughed before shaking his head jerkily. “But I mean...I’ll let you stay there as long as you get up if I like, hoot at you or something.”

 

A jet-black eyebrow crooked at him in amusement. “Hoot? What is this, _Get Smart?_ I’m pretty sure if there were owls in here that’d be a major health code violation.”

 

He could practically _feel_ his cheeks burning at his ridiculousness. “No, it’s the sign for _my-boss-is-coming-so-get-your-ass-up.”_ Sass that he knew he wasn’t supposed to let out bubbled up to buttress up his nerves as the guy stared up at him cheekily with a wide, knowing grin that made something strange twist under his sternum.

 

“Ah. Cool, well I’ll keep my ear perked for rogue owls. Thanks, dude.” Snarky Shitty Art Pondering Dude actually _winked_ at him and Patrick had to resist the urge to burst into flames right there.

 

“Uh...I,—“ he started, suddenly not sure how to say the relatively simple statement he was trying for. “I really like your, uh, _thing_.” He waved his hand at Pete’s sketch. “This painting is actually one of my favorites so it’s really cool to see someone else appreciate it.”

 

Snarky Shity Art Pondering Guy looked up at him with a look that was 70% starstruck happiness and 30% shock. “ _Dude_ , I love this one. It’s the— _wait.”_ He gave Patrick another one of those blinding grins as he held up a cautioning finger. “Before I blab on, tell me why _you_ like it.”

 

Oh God--this was a horrible nightmare, and it was all Patrick’s own fault. “Uhh...well, art isn’t really my _thing?_ So like I’m not gonna say it like transcends anything or whatever. But I just really like the light in it—it’s dark but still bright but it’s from two things, one is good and one is scary?” The rush of words ended in an embarrassed lilt upwards, like a question and he chewed at his bottom lip before spreading his hands in surrender. “I dunno, I’m a music major. Words aren’t really what I’m good at.”

 

But Snarky Charcoal Guy was looking up at him like Patrick had just offered him a time machine trip to go back and meet Renoir, all wide eyes and blinding grin. “ _Dude_ , I totally get what you mean, like it’s a different kind of light ‘cause its night but it’s so _awesome_ . Like, I think moonlight is actually the most underappreciated light and I really wish more people used it. It makes me feel so awesome ‘cause I have like crazy insomnia so its like super...it feels like home, you know?” Patrick wasn’t quite sure that he _knew_ anything about what had come out in that deluge of verbal thought, but he liked the enthusiasm in the guy’s face, the passion in his tone and the way his mouth looked when he said the words. But then he was sticking his hand up awkwardly and smiling like he was seeing the sun for the first time. “I’m Pete, by the way.”

 

“Patrick.” On politeness-autopilot he extended his hand and shook the one offered to him, noting distantly that they fit really well together, an artistic contrast of milk pale and caramel brown. But then his earpiece crackled to life with someone calling for help in the East Indies exhibit, and he pulled away. “Uh, nice to meet you, I gotta run.”

 

“Bye, Patrick.” Pete actually _blew him a kiss_ before he ducked his head and went back to sketching, and Patrick tried his damndest to not run into a wall as he jogged out of the gallery.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courage in the World Art Gallery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends! Hello! Thank you for dropping by! :D I've been...oh, just aching to actually *finish* a story for once! So I'm going to just dump the rest of this on you and run away to pound away at some of my other WIP's! 
> 
> Huge thanks to Shattered_mirrors_and_lace for helping me brainstorm this into what it is now, you're the best! And to SnitchesandTalkers for endless encouragement. This is also halfway the_chaotic_panda's fault...because she updated her hooker fic today and we were so depressed I had to write something to cheer myself (and Snitches!) up! Anyways...Happy Tuesday, and hope you enjoy!!

“Bro, did you hear this new Radiohead album?! It’s fucking  _ dope. _ ” Joe barreled into the room, throwing his backpack on his bed and unburying Patrick’s record player from under the t-shirt and stack of notebooks. Propping up the lid carefully, he pulled the vinyl free and began searching for its cover. “Seriously, I’ve never been so thankful for your OCD than right now. You’re the only person I know who alphabetizes their records, and it’s awesome.” 

 

Pushing his open textbook off his face with a groan, Patrick glared. “I was studying, asshole. This record better be solid fucking gold.” Rolling to his side as Joe found the sleeve for  _ Imperial Bedroom _ and slid the record into its place, he huffed out a sigh. “You know the only reason I let you touch my records is ‘cause you actually take care of them.”

 

“Duh.” Joe deadpanned as he set the inky-black record on the turntable, delicately setting the needle down before flopping onto his bed to the first strains of the opening track. “No but seriously...it’s  _ so good _ . And don’t lie--you weren’t studying, you were  _ sleeping.”  _

 

“I was absorbing music theory by osmosis.” He shot back, fingers already drumming against his thigh. “Now shut up, if you’re going to make me listen to this let me appreciate it already.” 

 

They wound their way through the tracks, Patrick squinting at the cover as each played, reading the titles and huffing. Now and then, Joe would interject an excited  _ this one’s my favorite!  _ or a  _ dude, this guitar solo, though. Metal. _ and Patrick would hum in agreement. It really  _ was _ a good album. 

 

By the time they reached the final track, Patrick had six new ideas for songs floating through his head, and he itched for the sheet music of “The Gloaming” so he could learn it on his battered acoustic. THE Silence stretched easy and pregnant with the echoes of the album, and Patrick reflected this was why Joe was the best roommate ever. He could actually just  _ be _ . 

 

“I think I’m going on a date.” Joe said after a while, throwing the statement out like he was flinging laundry from his bed. “If a girl invites you to get coffee and study, that’s a date, right?” 

 

“Yeah?” Patrick frowned at the ceiling, thinking it through. “I mean...is anyone else going to be there?” 

 

“Nope, just us.” Joe sounded breathless with excitement. “ _ And _ she has an actual assigned study partner, but she wanted to meet up with me  _ instead.” _

 

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Grinning as he looked over to where Joe had his head pillowed on his arms, feet kicked up as he pondered his headboard like it held the secrets of dating, Patrick nodded. “That’s  _ definitely _ a date. Buy her coffee.” 

 

“Fuck, I knew you’d say that. I’ve got like...five dollars ‘till Thursday.” 

 

“I’ll spot you. I’ve still got some of that birthday cash left from my mom.” He grinned, feeling like the mature one for once and deciding it was cool. 

 

“Thanks.” Silence stretched between the twin beds again, and the sound of the needle skipping on the turntable suddenly was driving him nuts. Sitting up Patrick took the record off and set it on the bed next to Joe, before selecting Ornette Coleman’s  _ The Shape of Jazz to Come _ and setting it up. The plaintive sound of the sax moaning out “Lonely Woman” filled the space and he sighed, thoughts drifting back again to the modern art gallery.

 

“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, and Patrick shook his head. 

 

“There’s this guy--I mean, it’s really dumb. He’s probably not even interested.” Joe made a non-commital noise of encouragement and disagreement, and he sighed again. “I’ve seen him twice, at the museum? He’s just...he really seems to love the art, you know? Like...he told me all about that stupid  _ Untitled _ one we always make fun of--did you it was painted by a gay guy who ran away to France and finally found a place he fit in?” 

 

“Nope.” Joe answered easily, pushing a stray curl from between his eyes as he peered over. “I mean...sucks that you’ve only seen him there. Do you even know his name?” 

 

“Pete.” He replied, too quickly and Joe made a sound that reminded him of a cow being skewered to death. After throwing a balled up piece of paper at him in retribution, Patrick stammered his way through the story...feeling more and more idiotic as he explained. Joe was silent, like the good friend he was, and Patrick finished with a mournful lament. “But I mean...he’s probably straight, and has a super-hot girlfriend, and isn’t it against something in the handbook that we can’t hit on patrons?” 

 

“Man, fuck the handbook.” Joe drawled, grinning at him from where he was leaning against the wall, regarding Patrick with a gleam in his eye. “He sounds cool...and hey, you never know if you don’t try. Maybe he’s totally  _ not _ dating a hot girl and is  _ totally _ waiting for a super-chill music theory major to sweep him off his little artistic feet.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

~//~

  
  


He was wandering aimlessly through the World Art section, the snow falling gently outside the windows making the silence of the exhibit seem somehow even more profound. It was pretty pompous, he thought, that all the non-Anglo-Saxon pieces were all lumped here in one sprawling exhibit for the _rest of the damn world's_ heritage. Privately, he thought the five hundred Renaissance paintings of a depressed Christ on the Cross could be slimmed down for some cultural representation. It sounded like something Jesus would be okay with. 

 

He paused by the carved Elephant tusk, admiring once again the way the figures marched upwards in a perfectly-carved spiral, each individual telling a story. How someone had carved it so precisely and with literally zero mistakes--probably using a stone-age butterknife--was something he still couldn’t understand. Some people had all the skills. He moved on to the nkondi exhibit, to the figure of a sassily-statured man nearly obscured by crude iron nails jutting from every part of it, some seeming to almost be nailed into the others. The only unmarred part was the face, where the statue gazed up haughtily with a raised eyebrow. He paused to read the plaque for the twentieth time:

 

**_Nkondi_ ** _ (plural varies: minkondi, zinknodi, or nindoni) are religious idols made by the Kongo People, and are considered agressive. The name nkondi derives from the verb -konda, meaning “to hunt” because they can hunt down and attack thieves, witches, or enemies. It is the home of a spirit which can travel out from it’s base, hunt down and harm others if need be. Many were publicly held and used to affirm oaths, protect villagers, and punish evildoers.  _

 

He imagined who he’d send the spirit after, if he had the chance. Maybe Maggie Cutler from middle school...he  _ still _ hated her for spilling water on his crotch and then telling everyone he had wet his pants. Sure, maybe he should let it go...but he could also hold onto it, thank you very much. 

 

A noise like a choked-off laugh startled Patrick out of his ruminations and he looked up to find the gallery no longer empty. It was  _ occupied _ . By  _ him. _

 

Today he was wearing grey skinny jeans, vans that looked like the white squares had been colored in, a purple tee and a vest that was  _ very  _ obviously made of fake leather. It was so shiny it looked like it could have been used to signal space...but that was topped off by a bold black-and-white beanie, pulled down low but Patrick doubted it was actually warm. Still, as his eyes drifted over the the tattoos like the world’s most permanent sharpie drawings on the slender arms...Patrick decided could forgive the fashion choices if it mean the might get the chance to taste them with his tongue.  

 

“What’s so funny?” He asked, mouth making the executive decision to start a conversation before his brain could weigh in with better options. The toffee-colored glaze flicked to him bright with humor, and he felt his chest ease just a bit at the way Pete smiled at him. 

 

“Patrick--dude hey!” He actually  _ waved _ like a five-year-old and Patrick had to sternly order himself to not wave back. “Can you imagine if boobs were really like that? You’d lose an eye if you did anything but doggy style!” 

 

Unable to hold back a snort, Patrick meandered over with his best  _ I’m-A-Docent-So-I’m-The-Adult  _ walk and looked at the statue in question. A woman was crouched down with her tiny child next to her, breasts poking straight out like twin missiles from her chest and he privately agreed with Pete even as his heart sank. What if Pete was  _ only _ into girls--what if he was imagining his girlfriend leaning over him--

 

“So, are you like, an art major? Is that why you work here?” Pete asked him as he shuffled over to the next exhibit--the elephant tusks, peering at them with intrigue that Patrick certainly understood. 

 

“No, not--no.” He considered punching himself for that eloquent delivery, but decided to soldier on. “I’m actually studying music--music theory, actually.”  _ Two “actually’s”--good job, dumbass _ . 

 

Topaz eyes flicked up to him from across the elephant tusk’s mounting. “Then why are you a docent in a museum?”

 

“Because I forgot to put down what I was interested when I applied for the work-study program so this is what I ended up with.” Patrick grimaced before giving a gentle shrug. “It’s not that bad. At least the shirts make my eyes look good.” It was out of his mouth before he had even realized he said it, and he had the strong urge to crawl under the tusks and hope Pete forgot about him forever. But instead, the room’s other occupant just nodded. 

 

“Sure do.” He agreed with a smile before moving on to the Nkondi exhibit. “What the fuck?” He squinted at the plaque and read the tiny print, and Patrick couldn’t help but notice he moved his lips as he read. 

 

“Those are my favorite, after the tusks.” Moving to stand next to him, Patrick looked at the collection and shrugged again as Pete read the three accompanying plaques. 

 

“Fuck yeah! That’s fucking legit--wish we had these for the Poly-Sci TA’s. Those people are crooked as hell.” 

 

“You’re poly-sci?” Patrick couldn’t help the surprise in his voice--for all the pondering and attention he showed to the art--no matter the multiple visits, he hadn’t expected that. 

 

“Yeah. It seemed like a good idea at the time?” Pete looked like he was trying to convince himself even as he answered and it made something sad unfurl in Patrick’s chest. “I started coming here after I broke up with my last...maybe-boyfriend? He said art was dumb and kinda made fun of me for wasting my time?” He shrugged, eyes full of self-deprecating sadness. “So after we broke up I decided to...spend the time I would have wasted on him him here. ‘Cause it makes me happy.”

 

“You should be happy.” Patrick whispered, his brain  _ once again _ lagging behind his mouth. But when he saw the light flare up in Pete’s eyes, the hopeful tilt of his lips and the sudden straightening of his spine just a tiny bit, he decided what the hell--what was the worst that could happen? “You’re--you’re really good. Like, your drawing of the moonlight-volcano one...it was amazing.” 

 

“This one?” Pete fished into his battered messenger bag and pulled out the pad, flipping to the charcoal sketch and Patrick nodded. “You--you want to see some of my other ones?” 

 

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze around him--time, space, and  _ especially _ his brain--except for the tiny little part that seemed to have been kicked into overdrive.  _ This is it--you can do it! Say something! Ask him out! Tell him you think he’s brilliant and hot and-- _

 

“Yeah. I’d like to…but maybe...not here?” 

 

Pete’s eyes shuttered a bit, but he nodded as he flipped the cover back over with a slap of pages and crammed it back into his bag. “Sorry, I’m totally keeping you from your job. I didn’t mean--”

 

“ _ No _ .” His heart was suddenly speeding up to compensate for its earlier sluggishness as he reached out for Pete’s hand, curving around it and into the wire spine of his sketchbook. “I mean--” He bit his lip, fumbling around for the words,  _ the words, _ why were words so hard sometimes? “I mean, would you show me like...when I’m not here? Like...I could make you ramen?” 

 

A smile like sunrise, like ice falling from a waterfall as the current finally pushed through, like a perfect  _ G- _ note broke across Pete’s face as his mouth curved into a smile.  _ He has a beautiful mouth _ , Patrick thought, wishing for the first time he had the skill to copy its shape on paper so he could always remember it. But then Pete was fishing in his bag, coming out with a sharpie that he uncapped in a fluid motion before yanking Patrick’s arm close, pushing up the sleeve of his blue museum button-up and pressing it against his stomach. Patrick made a valiant effort not to die right then and there from the very nearness of him. 

 

The scent of ink filled the air before Pete released him with a self-satisfied smile at his work. Seven digits were scrawled across the pale expanse of Patrick’s forearm, ended with a heart and what he  _ thought _ was a liberal interpretation of a winky-face. “There. Now you won’t lose my number for sure.” The sound of heels tapping a  _ click-click-click  _ across the floors jolted Patrick from his shocked contemplation of his arm...and he was just able to catch the flash of Pete’s smile as he tucked the sharpie away. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Tricky.” Pete whispered as he scampered away with a wink just as the Art Director entered the wing. She gave Patrick a nod as he pulled down the sleeve with shaking fingers, and he managed to smile at her before she sniffed and went on her way. 

 

Looking out at the snow’s leisurely descent downwards, Patrick felt like he had swallowed a hive of bees. Excitement, anticipation, and sheer disbelief that it had actually  _ happened  _ and gone  _ well _ skittered along his bones like vibrating lightning...and he shook his head at the Nkondi. 

 

“That was real, right?” 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THIS IS IT!! I ACTUALLY FINISHED SOMETHING FOR ONCE!! *smirks at Snitches* Told you I could do short...
> 
> This is a series of two epilogues...because Shattered_mirrors_and_lace has too many good bunnies, and because I wanted something totally adorkable and happily ever after-ish. Hope that you enjoy this little bit of a glimpse into the future of these two, and thank you so much for reading!

~ **Senior Year (2006)~**

 

He felt like he was going to fucking  _ die _ . Like, seriously--Pete may have gotten a soccer scholarship but he, Patrick Stumph, most certainly hadn’t and that was for a reason. Reaching the steps of the Art and Letters Hall, he heaved to a stop and leaned into hands on his knees, gasping for breath before he attempted that horrible pursuit of heaving his body upwards in six-inch increments. Still flush from the success of his final piece--he had submitted it to his professor three days prior and just found out it had been given the premier place in the Senior Showcase--he coughed and set his jaw as he straightened up. He could do this. They were just  _ stairs _ , he’d just run halfway across campus to get here on time, hadn’t he? Surging upwards, he gripped the handrail and assaulted the gleaming white marble mountain...before vanishing under the black banner proclaiming for all to see that this was where the College of Art Senior Showcase and evaluation was being held. 

 

Jogging down halls he was more familiar with than any music major had any right to be, he spotted Pete with his head jammed against the wall. He was standing apart from the gaggle of his fellow students, who looked to be midway through considering selling their souls to know what the industry professionals inside were saying about their submissions. His heart clenched in his chest as he noted the tense line of Pete’s spine, the way his hands were clenched up into his hoodie sleeves and the way his whole body ebbed with his short, choppy breaths...that was halfway to a panic attack, for sure. After dating Pete for nearly three years, he was familiar with the signs...and while he wasn’t perfect at calming him down, he was at least able to help rather than panic himself. 

 

“Pete?” He murmured as he came up close, hands held out in a conciliatory gesture he knew from the book he’d read was meant to be non-threatening. Pete had been vibrating on the very edge of a nervous breakdown for months now...frantically perfecting his existing pieces, coming up with new ones in a flurry of paint and charcoal when he convinced himself everything was trash, and generally bemoaning his decision to listen to Patrick’s advice and switch majors. But it wasn’t Defensive Pete that met his gaze--the liquid brown eyes that met his own were full of desperation and fear. 

 

" _OhmyGodTrick_ .” He gasped out and practically threw himself into Patrick’s arms...and Patrick decided that he could handle this Pete.  _ This _ Pete just seemed to need to be held, to have soft whispers of reassurance and love murmured into his ear as Patrick held him tight and soothed gentle circles across his back. He could feel Pete shaking against him, tiny tremors that rattled him so he tucked his head down and whispered past meticulously-straightened jet black hair,  _ deep breaths now, come on sweetheart, with me. In and out, innnn and outtttt…. _

 

Five minutes later, Pete was sipping water from his flask plastered with stickers and the shakes were mostly gone, replaced with giddy hope and self-flagellating efforts at not counting his chickens before they hatched. “I--I mean, I have the  _ most _ pieces of anyone in there...so that’s gotta mean something, right? And you liked the orange one, right? Like, that one made sense?” 

 

Patrick just nodded with a smile he hoped was reassuring. He hadn’t quite  _ gotten _ what Pete was trying to communicate, although Lord knows he’d heard his rambling explanation more than once. He knew the canvas was supposed to represent saying goodbye to a future that you knew was safe so you could say hello to one that set your soul ablaze...but he just never could quite  _ see it _ . But Pete did...and Pete was the artist. So that’s all that mattered. 

 

The door opened and his boyfriend stiffened with a gasp, hand tightening compulsively around his water bottle before darting out to grip Patrick’s so hard it  _ hurt _ . But then he was being dragged by said hand into the gallery, stumbling behind Pete as he rushed headlong towards his corner of exhibited pieces. Pete wove like a homing beacon was attached to his forehead through the crowd of graphic designers, local artists, museum curators and faculty who stood about. Patrick just followed and tried to not crash into anyone in his wake. 

 

But then there were there, and he felt pride bloom in his chest as he took in the tally sheet tacked up on the wall next to Pete’s paintings. A straight row of 4s and 5s stared back at them, heralding the news that the assembled experts had deemed his work above average on upwards to groundbreaking. But their eyes were drawn to where, under the canvas swimming in orange that Pete had poured his heart and soul into, was a sticky note that read “Exemplary balance of storytelling and design. Truly a monumental accomplishment.” 

 

Pete’s joyous yell of triumph echoed in the gallery as he  _ actually _ jumped up and down a few times before running a hand through his hair as he stared anew, limbs slack in shock and gratitude. Patrick just took his hand and squeezed, tugging him close enough to whisper, “Never doubted you for a second.” 

  
  


 

**~Happily Ever After (2013)~**

 

His tuxedo was fucking  _ dashing _ , if he did say so himself--he practically felt like James Bond, ready to take on a bear. Or maybe rob a casino like Danny Ocean, if George Clooney was barely five foot, pale, and had no taste in art just like Patrick. No matter--he felt every inch like he belonged alongside the women glittering in rented diamonds and world-famous artisans from every corner of the globe. Adjusting his fedora as he turned the corner, his objective came into view. 

 

All stark black lines punctuated with shades of blues here, greens there and purpled somewhere else, the ten-by-ten canvas hung under a single spotlight on a bare white wall. Pete had never really explained this one to him--always giving oblique answers and hand-waves that did nothing to help him understand the meaning behind the abstract placement of paint. But as he looked at it, he began to notice the way the colors were all of similar shades, but ordered in different patterns of hues. Leaning forward, he thought he saw something that looked like a wave in one and the black lines in the corner looked nearly like the frets of a guitar neck. A particular line reminded him irreverently of the curve of Pete’s ass, while another swirling confluence of color made him think of the color of the the grass under the tree at the park, where Addison would pick dandelions. 

 

Taking a step back, he tried to really  _ look  _ at the painting...to see it as a whole rather than just individual colors like Pete always told him.  _ Sure, ‘Trick, each element means something but you gotta listen to what the artist is saying as a whole. You wouldn’t stop Beethoven’s Sixth just to hear the cello play--the magic is in how all those instruments work together, right? Art’s the same--you gotta really try to  _ feel _ what your heart is trying to show you.  _ Maybe it was just his synthesia flaring up, maybe it was the barest buzz that the champagne had worked on his head, maybe it was the fact that  _ his husband’s artwork was hanging in The Met _ ...but for a minute, he thought he got it. 

 

A warm hand slipped into his, so immediately familiar he didn’t startle but just leaned into the body he knew would accompanied it. They stood in silence for a moment before he shook his head and cast about for how to put his feelings into that thing called  _ language _ , just like he had all those years ago standing watch in the DePaul Art Museum. “It’s...it feels like peace, I think. It’s not  _ peaceful _ , but all the things, when you put them together...they complement each other, round the others edges out. It’s like--putting on a jacket that’s always fit weird so it feels normal because it’s yours. It makes me feel like I belong.” He shook his head, ignoring the look of awed excitement on Pete’s face. “That doesn’t make sense, does it? This is why nothing I write has words--they’re so not my thing.”

 

Pete hummed softly beside him and slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “No...you’re on the right track, really.” 

 

“Only took one of your pieces to get internationally recognized as genius and placed in the country’s biggest Art Museum, huh? Maybe it’s the fact it isn’t crammed into the living room that makes it for me.” He chuckled and Pete squeezed. 

 

“Maybe.” There were another few heartbeats of silence as they both stared at the painting, each thinking their own thoughts before Pete bumped his hip against Patrick’s playfully. “You know what this one means to me?” 

 

“Finally gonna tell me your top-secret source of inspiration?” Patrick affected a look of mock surprise. “Oh my God, this is it. This is the day I get a peek into the mind of Pete Wentz--hang on, let me pinch myself.” 

 

“Asshole.” Pete rolled his eyes fondly as he shook his head, a gentle smile twisting his lips. It was always hard to tell on his gorgeously-tinted skin if he was blushing--a fact that Patrick privately thought was a horribly unfair advantage--but he  _ thought _ there was a hint of color on the curve of Pete’s cheekbones. Patrick just stared at him as he stared at his work, at the painting that had skyrocketed him to prominence, and waited for him to speak. 

 

The lilting sound of Addison’s laugh reached his ears and Patrick turned to look for his daughter with the watchful eye of a parent. But she was safe--exactly where he had left her with Joe and Marie and their daughter, sharing secrets in each other’s ears and laughing. He smiled--she was so beautiful, so fiery just like Pete though she shared none of their genetic material. Turning, his eyes fell back on his husband, who was smiling almost wistfully at the painting...like he was watching a friend step on a train that would carry him away forever. 

 

“This was listening.” The words floated out and Patrick cocked his head in confusion. 

 

“Huh?” He braced himself for an explanation he probably wasn’t going to understand, already lining up his standard litany of interested noises and questions in his head. “Listening?”

 

“This was how I felt when I listened to your record.” Pete’s eyes flickered over to him and he gave a loose shrug, a gentle roll of the shoulders like he hadn’t just said something ridiculously profound. Patrick was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open like a flytrap. “I--it was so beautiful but with all this  _ stuff _ that cut through it, like citrus keeps cake from being too sweet, you know? And it just made me feel things--it reminded me of the day I proposed.” He looked down at his shoes--deep purple snakeskin and ridiculous--and then up to meet Patrick’s wide eyes with that soft smile. “Best day of my life.” 

 

It was  _ hard _ to string words together, Patrick thought distantly, and it was doubly unfair that Pete could say something like  _ that _ so effortlessly. Simply unjust. 

 

“You’re such a dick. And I love you so fucking much.” He whispered, and it was the best he could do, considering. He pulled Pete just a little closer and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, wishing he could just rip his clothes off and show him just what he was feeling right then and there...but sadly, that wasn’t the type of  _ art _ the Met allowed. 

 

“Did you see what it’s named?” Pete asked, arm warm around him, and Patrick shook his head. 

 

“I kinda stopped trying to figure out how you pick titles when you named that one piece “Sending Postcards from a Plane Crash.” He couldn’t help snarking out as Pete tugged him closer to look at the tiny plaque next to the canvas and took in the single word. “ _ Saturday _ . I don’t get it.” 

 

“You know, it’s probably good you don’t write romance novels for a living, lunchbox. You have all the sappy instincts of a cardboard box.” Pete smirked at him, and he shrugged. 

 

“Yeah, but I can write a soundtrack to a chick-flick that will have mascara running all over the country, so...” 

 

“Fair point.” Pete laughed, bright and lighthearted and Patrick had the sneaking suspicion his husband was going to say something that was going to make him feel like an asshole. “You asked me out in the museum on a Saturday, I proposed to you on a Saturday, we got Addie on a Saturday, and you played me your record for the first time on a Saturday. So it seemed appropriate.” 

 

_ Yep...I’m officially clairvoyant,  _ Patrick thought with a mental grimace as he felt it sink in--the romance that Pete spun around them so effortlessly that he could only see when it dropped on top of him. “You know, you’re making me feel like a first-class dick right now. I thought I was stellar for bringing you roses.” 

 

“They were lovely.” Pete laughed, pulling him close with that smile that made his insides melt and his knees wobble. 

 

“Daddy!” Addison’s voice cut through the words Patrick was desperately trying to put together in his head--a mish-mash of  _ I love you so much _ and  _ you’re a real life romance novel _ and  _ I swear to God you just sit and think of this stuff to fuck with me _ and  _ Wait until we get home, Wentz. _ But then Pete was swinging their daughter up into his arms as Patrick fussed at her, pulling her dress down to cover her underwear like a proper young lady. She turned wide brown eyes to Patrick and cocked her head in a motion he knew was all him. “Papa, there’s a picture of a  _ naked man  _ in the other room, I saw his  _ bottom!”  _ She gave him a scandalized look that Patrick mirrored to Pete’s hearty laughter as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

 

“Well, sometimes art has to be  _ honest, _ baby girl.” He grinned. “Everybody’s got a butt, after all!” 

 

“ _ Daddy!”  _ Addison and Patrick glared at him in tandem and he made a  _ who, me? _ face full of innocence and wrongful accusation until his daughter giggled and shook her head at him, with all the sass of both her parents combined. 

 

“Put me down, daddy? Uncle Andy said he’d take me to see the  _ scupultures  _ of the animals!” She wiggled like a sea cucumber until he put her down and Patrick called  _ don’t run, young lady! _ After her as she barreled towards where Andy was grinning like a ginger Santa Claus. 

 

“She’s going to be a straight-edge, vegan, communist anarchist thingy if she falls anymore in love with him.” Pete observed and Patrick shrugged. 

 

“At least we won’t have to worry about her doing a line off some frat boy’s abs if that’s the case.” He slipped his hand into Pete’s, eyes floating back to the painting and the little plaque.  _ Saturday.  _ “Hey--I’m really proud of you, you know.” 

 

Pete’s eyes were full of memories and laughter as he tugged him away, after their daughter. “Well, it’s all your fault, after all. I’d be a miserable marketing analyst or something with a useless poly-sci degree if you hadn’t stalked me in the museum  _ and _ convinced me to switch my major.” 

 

“It’s not actually  _ stalking _ when I  _ worked _ there, dummy.” Patrick replied, the retort he’d given a hundred times rolling off his lips like silk as he followed his husband. He heard Addison’s laughter sparkling somewhere like a bell, and he sighed. 

 

Thank all the Gods in the universe for Saturdays.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Fame < Infamy" on "Infinity on High." Thanks to Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace for helping me pick it out!


End file.
